I ordered 22 books online,
I ordered the entire Man Booker shortlist,
and Bukowski,
hoping all the talent, and that
drunken, depressed and dirty old man,
would save me
from the holiday stupor.
It’s Christmas nearly,
and he has failed.
Bukowski, you piece of shit,
why did you write five thousand poems,
if none of them
are of any use to me?
Bukowksi, you miserable misogynist,
was Chinaski even you?
and all those women you talked about,
did you really rape them?
tell me you fool,
what were you even doing,
writing poems, creating stories,
for the wretched and the outcasts,
when what you really should’ve done
is shot yourself in the face,
just under your eye.
You weren’t that pretty to begin with.
I fear I will be like you someday,
a miserable, misunderstood misogynist.
